


Roses

by stargatefan_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-10-07 11:43:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10359648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargatefan_archivist/pseuds/stargatefan_archivist
Summary: An SGC widow ruminates.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Yuma, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Stargatefan.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Stargatefan.com). To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [StargateFan Archive Collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StargateFan_Archive_Collection).

Roses

##  Roses

##### Written by Lin   


  


I watch the dust motes dance in the sunlight sweeping through the naked window as the men remove the last of the furniture. All that remains in the echoing room is the stacks of neatly labeled boxes. Soon those will join the rest of my belongings in the back of the moving truck and then the only things left will be the silence and the emptiness. 

Restless, I open the glass doors and step out onto the patio. The warm humid breeze carries the scent of honeysuckle. The vines grow wild along the back fence, vying for space with the roses. I wander across the grass, reaching out to touch a flower or the truck of a tree as I pass. There is little rhyme or reason to the pattern of the plants. How many times did I come out here to find him on his knees, surrounded by newspaper wrapped clippings or little plastic pots? I'd laugh as he set out another crooked row of half dead somethings. He'd just smile as he patted the dirt down around the twigs. From the curb in the front of the house to the back fence, he planted things at random. I asked him once, years ago, why he didn't lay out flower beds like everyone else? He shrugged and said life was too chaotic to be confined within tidy little borders. He liked a riot of color with surprises around every corner. Something in him cried out for a wild display of growing things, of life at its simplest and most colorful. When we bought this place after his last transfer two years ago, the grounds were little more than an expanse of grass edged by a few trees with rose bushes thrown in here and there. It didn't take him long to transform it into his own private version of paradise. Before the last coat of paint in the master bedroom was dry, he was out here, trowel in hand, putting in bulbs. 

A sharp pain in my palm startles me. I look down, surprised to see my hands knotted into fists. I relax my fingers to find I have crushed a rosebud in my grip. I don't remember picking it. The petals scatter across the grass as I drop it. Sucking on the tiny wound from it's single thorn, I sit down on the bench under the archway of climbing roses that he had worked with for so long to get just right. 

I gaze through the tangle of rose vines to the cloud edged sky. The sunlight casts dappled shadows across me as I breathe in the perfume of the blooms. He loved all flowering plants, but his heart belonged to the roses. Every fence surrounding our home supports some variety. Trellises along the walls and rows of bushes along the driveway sport a rainbow of colors right up through the first snow. In season, we always had fresh cut roses by the hearth and on the dining room table. It was those bushes that sold this house. The real estate agent was going on at length about floor space, and closet size while he was staring out the window at a blooming Peace rose. Later when I asked him what he had thought about the place, all he said was that it had rich soil and good drainage. 

The trill of a catbird startles me. It's sweet song is joined by another. Their music rises and falls in the warm air. I close my eyes and let the sound course through me. So beautiful. I am painfully aware of the empty space beside me on the bench. The scent of his roses and the honeysuckle is overwhelming. I choke on it, bringing tears to my eyes. 

For thirty-four years I followed him from one assignment to another. Sometimes we lived on base, but often we bought a house in a nearby community. Our children grew up in a series of houses, never knowing where we would end up next. It was all part of the adventure. Time and time again we left behind neighbors, new friends, and a haphazard trail of flowers, but it was okay because we were together. Now James is in college back east and Christy is learning all the ups and downs of marriage in her own home. 

We had a good life together. Being married to an Air Force officer whose jobs were classified more often than not wasn't always easy. Over the years I got used to the 'need to know' aspects of his work. He didn't give me any details about what he did, and I didn't pry. I don't think he would have told me, even if I had insisted. He felt he needed to protect me from that side of his life and I respected that need. At home, he was a loving husband and devoted father. At work, he was a consummate professional who did what was asked of him by his government. That was all I needed to know. I tried not to let the rest bother me. I tried to be supportive, whether it was with the calls in the middle of the night that sent him hurrying for the door with no explanation, or the sleepless nights after he got back. I was always there for him with all the unquestioning love I could give. 

Things changed for him with this last assignment. He was excited and anxious after he received his transfer. He talked about the men he was stationed with, his new commander, but never the assignment itself. I could tell he wanted to talk about it. I often saw that look on his face that said, 'I have a secret and I'm dying to let you in on it', but he would restrain himself. It cost him to keep his silence. I'll probably never know what was worth all the secrecy, but I respected his loyalty to it. I loved him enough to help him keep the secret. 

I just wish it had been enough. Love isn't a magic shield to protect and shelter, to guide a lost loved one home again. It can't cure all ills or overcome all obstacles. I'm not a child to believe in fairy tales, or happy-ever-afters. I knew from the start that one day there might come a knock on the door, but I wasn't ready for it when it came. Two months ago a man in a crisp uniform arrived, letter in hand, with half heard words of condolences as he explained that my husband wouldn't be coming home again. 'In the line of duty' came through the shock and 'a credit to his country', but little else made it past 'we regret to inform you'. Knowing the possibility existed in no way prepared me for the harsh reality. Even now I find it hard to accept. I keep waiting to hear his voice in the next room, to see his shoes on the floor, to smell his after shave lingering in the bedroom. My heart twists with the realization it isn't going to happen. 

The birds have fallen silent. Dull gray clouds are moving across the sun, darkening the sky. A little rain wouldn't hurt. The plants could use it. I watch the clouds glide by through the tangle of vines overhead. I look around at a bobbing cluster of Caladiums. A broad leaf dips suddenly under the weight of a rain drop. It is time to go back inside. I stand up and make my way across the yard. The rain has begun to fall in earnest as I reach the patio. I push my damp hair from my eyes and take a last look at the rustling plants. Seized by a sudden compulsion, I drop to my knees and claw at the dirt. The snapping of a nail goes unnoticed as I gouge out fistfuls of soil. My sobs mix with the sounds of the storm and my tears blend with the rain as I work my hands down into the warm earth. I pry and pull at the stubborn roots until at last the prickly plant tears free from the ground. 

I get to my feet and hurry around the house. The moving men are waiting in their truck out front, their task done. I nod to them as I fumble with one hand for the keys in my pocket. Holding the miniature rose bush aloft, I smile as it's wet leaves tremble and it's tiny blooms bob before placing it carefully onto the floor board of my car. Heedless of the state of my clothes, I slip into the driver's seat. I can go now. 

**~ The End ~**

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>   
>  © February 25, 2001 The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.  
> 

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**Author's Note:** Feedback on or off list is welcomed. I apologize to my wonderful betas for not waiting for their feedback. 

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